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Then my brain came back on. This is how I get into trouble. I moved my hand up to the small of Dorabella’s back, where it could be affectionate and non-sexual. I kissed her cheek. “Um. Bellie, I better say goodnight.”

Her face had reddened nearly as much as Raylene’s ass. “I guess you better. Are you really going to strap Raylene again in the morning?”

“Not the strap. I’m going to cane her. For being rude to Lynette.”

“Christ. I should be horrified. But … well, she was a brat during dinner. Give her one for me.”

I should have left on that note.

But it was a generous concession from Bellie, and I was happy not to be a monster any more. So I kissed her mouth. She opened her mouth and we explored each other’s tongues and teeth, the way we’d done after that party, years ago. Bellie moved her feet apart. I knew that if I put my hands firmly on her ass, she’d lift her legs so I was carrying her. Then we’d fuck. I said, “Bellie. I have to go to bed…”

“And fuck Raylene.”

“Yup. Fucking will happen.”

Bellie sighed again, still in my arms. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve made a bit of a mess of this. I was wanting to tell you to be careful with Raylene, not try to fuck her … boyfriend.”

“We’re all people. You’re a good person. So’s Raylene. And Lynette, I guess.”

“You’d better think so. If you’re going to cane Raylene for being cheeky to her. Can she listen?”

It takes the male brain 0.05/second to start thinking on those terms. My brain, anyway, I’m afraid. No encouragement seems to be required

“She can watch, if she likes.” That was my cock, seizing control of my vocal cords. I didn’t expect that Lynette would want to watch a woman being brutalised by the patriarchy.

Bellie probably would, I suspected, but not with her sister. Probably. “Anyway, I try to be good too. So I’d best get the hell out of here and join Raylene. Goodnight, sweetie. And I will take care of her.”

I let go of Bellie and stood back. She smiled again, a mock-brave smile like a woman waving goodbye to a lover about to join the troops. I managed not to kiss her again. She said, “goodnight. Sir.”

That was a joke, mocking me and Raylene. I tried not to think about how it would sound if she’d meant it. I said, “Good night. Sleep tight.”

And I went to Raylene’s bedroom, not sure whether I’d just been heroically self-denying, or just an asshole.

Bellie took me into her mother’s room. There was one downstairs bedroom, and it seemed that Lynette was going to sleep in that, while Bellie preserved what I assumed was her girl-on-girl virginity in her own bedroom. I didn’t know how thick the walls were, but that seemed a good reason to put off Raylene’s caning till morning.

Perhaps something like that, I was thinking…

Raylene’s caning? Well, I’d decided that I had an excuse to punish her, for winding up Bellie and Lynette over dinner. And I thought she might find the cane a bit more effective than the razor strop. So there was a thing called “Raylene’s caning”.

In the morning she’d cut and fetch me two lengths of bamboo, one whip and one thick. She’d pass Bellie and Lynette in the kitchen.

Then she’d bring them to me, upstairs in her bedroom, and she’d place her body in the position I specified. Perhaps bent over, holding her ankles. Or face down on the bed. I’d decide at the time. And then I’d begin. We’d cover the area from halfway down her thighs and all of her buttocks, applying firm, unhurried strokes. I knew she’d stay in place. I wondered if she’d cry. Either way, she’d learn what each cane felt like.

That thought had been giving me most of an erection. And although Bellie didn’t seem happy with me, her sitting on the double bed didn’t do anything to discourage the blood flow to my cock. She crossed her legs. “So what’s going on? Are you two a couple now?”

“Um… We haven’t actually talked about it. But I’m spending tonight here. And tomorrow night I hope she’ll be at my place. And, well, and so on. So I suppose we are. If it’s okay with Raylene.”

“I thought she didn’t get any choices -“

“Oh come on. She can tell me to fuck off whenever she likes, same as anyone.”

“Yes. Technically. But she’s already calling you sir. That’s just not her. She doesn’t call men ‘sir’. How much freedom has she given up? Really?”

The truth was ‘none at all.’ Not just because we hadn’t discussed it, but also because her surface subservience was an act of Raylene’s own will. It was sexually exciting, and it also wound up Bellie a bit and Lynette a lot. She was doing what she chose, and no more. So I smiled. “All of it.”

Bellie looked at me, horrified. “You made her call you ‘sir’. You were whipping her when we got home. You’re going to whip her now, for being cheeky over dinner.”

“Well, not exactly. You’d be in the next room, trying to sleep. So I was thinking I’d wait till morning.”

“That’s …” Bellie was trying to think of a word that expressed how terrible I was being. She gave up.

“Considerate.” She tried to look angry, but the eyes indicated that she thought that was funny. “Dorabella, I never did anything to you you didn’t want. And I would have liked – Um, I would have liked more time with you, among other things.”

Now she did smile, the minx. “Would you have liked to smack my bottom?”

“Of course I wanted to smack your arse. It’s one of the three hottest asses in … this house. I mean the whole damn universe. But I didn’t force anything on you, and I haven’t with Raylene, either. She really can walk away if she wants. Or she can say we’ll just have regular sex and no more pervy stuff. That’s up to her, and I’d do as she asks. Also, I like her a lot.”

This could have got messy. Notwithstanding.

She stood and came close. I put my arms around her, because we were ex-lovers and some barriers between us were already and permanently down. At first it was a chaste hug, with my lower body held slightly away from hers, but she pressed forward so that she could feel my erection against her lower belly. My cock was hard at least partly in her honour as well as Raylene’s, by then. I had my hand holding her ass. She sighed.

Richard Wagner died in his rooms at a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice. The locals, naturally, turned this great historical building, rich in artistic associations, into a casino.

Wagner’s old digs at night. See the dark area on the second floor, towards the left? We were there

A few years ago I went to the Casino de Venezia with Niamh, a girl I’d met in Dublin. Gambling bores me, and she said she didn’t care about casinos one way or the other. But I wanted to have a look at Wagner’s old rooms, and she came along because we were sharing a bed so we might as well share this too. Also, I’d promised and demonstrated that if she didn’t do as she was told I’d smack her arse. So there was that. She was fond of the hairbrush, in particular.

I guess I should admit that I’d answered her ad on Fetlife, once I realised I was going to be in Ireland for a while, so even before we’d met we’d both established that Niamh was a girl who liked doing as she was told. And getting a smacked arse. Anyway, there we both were. Niamh still wore that afternoon’s wonderful summer dress, the top of which was held up mainly by her breasts. I wasn’t so glamorous, since I was in jeans, but at least I had on decent shoes and a jacket.

Once we were in the top floor I asked a few casino staff where the Wagner rooms were. They didn’t know. They’d never heard of Wagner. If I wanted an explanation of anything you could do with dice and some cards – in public, at least – then they’d be happy to help, but this Wagner fellow … They’d shrug and hold their hands open and empty.

I got annoyed with this, so when I found a closed door I opened it, and when I found a closed curtain I drew it. When I found the back stairs we went down them to the mezzanine floor where Wagner had lived. And died. It turned out that someone had made a Wagner Museum out of Wagner’s old rooms. It was closed of course. Well, it was closed in the sense that it was dark and there was no-one there. But I turned the door handle, and it opened.

I wondered about security alarms, and decided that I could probably bullshit my way out of trouble if an alarm went off, and I held the door open for her. Then I followed, and after a minute it was clear that if there was an alarm someone had forgotten to switch it on. Italy’s cool like that.

I moved through the exhibits, feeling a certain mix of excitement and disappointment. Excitement because we’re here, where Wagner lived! And this is his stuff! And disappointment because I’d hoped for some sense of communion and connection. But there wasn’t. There’s his piano, but he’s dead. He’s not here.

But there was a certain kind of homage to the great man when Niamh came back from her exploration. I kissed her, and then pushed her dress down to her waist, so her breasts were bare.

Like a Rhinemaiden’s. Like a Flower Maiden. Then I put light pressure on her shoulders and she sank to her knees, unzipped me and took out my cock. She licked, then kissed my glans, then opened her mouth a little wider. Oddly, it was me who said, “Ahhh.”

So I was standing there, my cock deep in the mouth of a bare-breasted Irish girl, when I heard something. A security guard had walked onto the mezzanine floor. He’d seen us. I put my hands on Niamh’s shoulders and squeezed, to let her feel how pleased I was with her, though my cock was already conveying that information, and to obscure her peripheral vision.

Then I looked at the security guard and shrugged the apologetic Italian shrug. Niamh was still sucking me, oblivious. He considered for a second or two: is a couple having oral sex in the museum likely to steal things? Or are they innocents pursuing innocent and harmless pleasures? He didn’t smile, but he lit a cigarette (yes, I know; it’s an old building) and wandered back to the stairs.

Later I pulled out of Niamh’s mouth and took her by the hand. I opened the window out onto the Grand Canal. There was a ledge with a stone barrier. There were also lights lighting up the front of the casino, but they left pools of darkness at the sides of each projector. So that’s where I bent her over, smacked her pretty little ass, and took a condom from my wallet and put it on my cock. And put my cock in her.

You’d think that was the riskier situation, but it wasn’t. Our view was fantastic, lights and gondolas and vaporetti, and the throng of people, and so was the softness of her cunt and my hardness sliding slowly together, and the gritty stone under her breasts, uncomfortable in the good way, and our urgency slowly building.

It’s a good place to fuck. Venice is a city for lovers, because without us there wouldn’t be the money to pay to preserve all those drowned streets and buildings. So there aren’t many people in Venice, I don’t think, who don’t like the sight of bare breasts joggling while their owner gets pumped from behind.

But they missed out. Even when Niamh and I came, fairly close together, and not completely succeeding in suppressing orgasm noises (we sounded like donkeys coughing), not a soul noticed us.

Bellie and Lynette interrupting Raylene’s strapping had probably made me more embarrassed than Raylene was

Raylene’s “sirs”, during dinner, had become a little sign of triumph to her sister, and defiance to Lynette. I’d told her to call me that, but it still made me a bit uncomfortable because I didn’t really think it was ok to involve others in something sexual between Raylene and me.

On the other hand, Bellie and Lynette had chosen to come up the stairs even after it was obvious that something personal was going down. And they hadn’t backed away even when they’d realised that Raylene was naked and in the process of getting her ass leathered.

So she was entitled to wind them up. I didn’t have the heart to tell her to ease off.

We’d finished the moussaka, but we still had half a bottle of red wine on the table. So we all sat together, talking and pouring thimble-sized helpings of the merlot. It was understood that we’d all go to bed when we’d finished. Or Lynette might go home; I think she wanted to sleep with Bellie, but Bellie had no sexual interest in women.

Anyway, we’d been talking about cycle tracks, and I’d said you’d need a mountain bike to ride on most of the new ones.

Lynette said, “Yeah, ‘mountain bikes’ is a dumb name for those bikes. They’re good for jumping from the road up to the pavement but they’d be useless on a mountain.”

Raylene smiled. “Well, Lynette, lots of things have dumb names. Anyone would think a razor strop is for sharpening razors, but that’s not what they for, is it?”

Lynette did laser-eyes at Raylene. And then spoiled the effect by blushing.

She was preparing something angry to say, so I interrupted with, “And sleeping bags aren’t asleep. And you can’t stew anything with stewing steak.” That was fatuous even by my standards, but at least the moment had passed. I poured out the rest of the wine, making a little show of not giving Raylene any. “Could be bed time, though.”

Bellie said “Just might be, at that.” She smiled at me, while Raylene and Lynette glared at each other across the table.

I picked up my glass. “Raylene.”

She broke off her staring competition with Lynette. “Sir?”

“Hop it. Bed. Now.”

“Sir.” Raylene was a lot too triumphant. But I resisted the urge to slap her arse when she got out of her chair and left the room. There’d been enough demonstrations of one kind or another. Lynette watched her leave. She was still angry.

I finished my wine. “Yeah. That was one of the great moussaka of our time. No, seriously, that was good. Thank you. And we’ll cook tomorrow. Goodnight, Dorabella. Goodnight, Lynette.”

Lynette made a noise that might have been good night, if there were only one syllable in good night. I left.

Raylene would have to walk past Lynette and Bellie in the kitchen, carrying her new-cut canes. Then she’d bring them to me, in her bedroom, and the caned-girl noises would start

Raylene would be waiting in her bedroom. I felt she’d earned another touch of the razor strop, but I didn’t to make any more sexual noises that night.

It occurred to me that there was a bamboo clump behind the church next door. Maybe Raylene should cut a couple of canes in the morning and bring them to me. That would be nicely humiliating. The cane is quieter than the razor strop. She’d want to cry out, and she’d want not to.

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Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

We’d finished our tea, and we were lazily getting dressed, saying unimportant things to each other. We were chatting about music, I think. She liked Sting more than I did, is all I can remember of that. She put on a fresh pair of knickers and a new bra, with her old jeans and a t-shirt.

I wore the same clothes as before, of course. If we were going to be doing more meeting, beating and fucking, I’d probably have to leave some underpants, shirts, a toothbrush and so on, in her room.

But not this cushion. She hadn’t earned this one yet

We could smell moussaka down in the kitchen. It was good. We dressed quickly. I borrowed Raylene’s hairbrush.

But when we were ready to leave the room, go downstairs and face the others, Raylene grabbed a cushion. I said, “Cushion?”

“And my arse is kind of sensitive at the moment. Well, it’s sore, actually. You might be able to guess why.”

I whacked her arse one more time, through her jeans, to demonstrate that I remembered why. She was cheerful about that.

I said, “Raylene, you’ve got some new habits to learn. First, you don’t assume things like that. If you want to sit on a pillow after I’ve strapped you, you have to ask.”

I left a pause, and Raylene looked at me from under her brows. “Can I take this cushion down and sit on it during dinner? Sir?”

“No.”

Her mouth dropped open. She was genuinely surprised. I didn’t need to explain, but I did. “I just strapped you. If I made your arse sensitive, then that’s how I want you. If it’s a bit uncomfortable sitting down, that’s how I want it to be. Do you understand?”

After a spanking some girls will do anything to avoid sitting on a wooden seat

Raylene turned away to put the cushion down. When she turned back to me she kept her eyes down. “Yes. Sorry, sir. That makes sense, actually.”

I kissed her forehead. “Anyway, I doubt if t’ll do more than tingle. You’ll get used to it. No matter how hard the chairs are.”

Raylene looked skeptical, but she nodded. “Yes, sir.”

I indicated the door then and Raylene walked through. She put her head back and her hands open, level with her shoulders, and her feet scuffed a bit on the corridor carpet. She was skipping. I caught up with her and put an arm round her waist. She smiled at me. Something sexy and exciting had started.

I said, “Oh, one other thing.”

“Sir?”

“Doesn’t matter that Bellie and Lynette are here. When you address me during dinner, you still call me sir.”

Is there something, (or things), that you would absolutely say no to in a sexual context?

What are your limits? Are they hard? Soft?

Have your limits changed over time?

Response

I have a personal ad on Fetlife, and I tell readers that I won’t have anything to do with shit, or urine, or knives or pins or sharps. Or animals. I also mention that I’m only interested in women, sexually, and that I’m a dom and I don’t switch.

All of that’s still true and I feel no need to change any off it. But the edges can get fuzzier than I’d expected when I wrote it.

For example, I’d prefer to have nothing to do with shit, in a sexual context. But I’ve already mentioned cleaning around the asshole of a girl I’d just buggered, because she’d leaked a bit. That’s not scat, because there was no shit-related pleasure in it for me, or her. It was just a job that needed to be done, quietly and discreetly.

I dealt with it by switching off part of my reaction for the duration. I’ve worked on farms, and I’ve cleaned shit from sheep and cattle, where it’s necessary to prevent flies from breeding. And there’s a mental attitude you get where you do what’s necessary, with a kind of detached benevolence until the necessary is done. So I could refine my statement so it reads, “Well, yes: I’ll deal with shit in some sexual contexts, but not for pleasure.”

I’ve found that I will do things that don’t attract me, if the submissive really wants me to. Once, under severe begging from a submissive girl I was just short of in love with, I pissed in her mouth and then, more generally, on her body. (She’d moved to the bath for the experiment.)

My thought at the time was, “Well, this is a new and unsexy experience, but it is taboo-breaking, isn’t it?”

So I felt that detached irony again: I was there and not-there, simultaneously. There was a kind of kindness there, and I like to be kind, but there was nothing erotic in it for me. But though I pushed that limit, it’s still there. It was a one-off, never repeated.

I suppose I could amend “I won’t do anything sexual with urine” to read, “I won’t do anything quasi-sexual involving piss ever again.” But then I’d have to tell the story above to explain that, and I don’t feel like it. So I’ll let the current wording stand. It’s still true.

Sharp’s erotica. Some people like it, but it’s not for me. (Confession: just a cheap joke. I’ve never read any Olive Sharp.)

As for sharps, I have an absolute horror of them. I once got cut quite badly when I was a child. It was just an accident, but to this day I feel a little cold chill in the pit of my stomach whenever I’m confronted with a sharp blade. I don’t let it interfere with anything I have to do, but there’s no way I could make it part of something pleasurable. I won’t cut or stick anyone with a blade, and I expect the same courtesy to be extended to me.

So there’s no change at all in my attitude to sharps: they’re always off-limits. Oh, and animals are still right out, too. And so are shit and piss. Except that I’ll clean them away when it’s my responsibility.

So I guess my limits can be pushed a little, but they’re still hard limits.

Terence

Terence is a Roman comic playwright. He borrowed and translated that line from the Greek comic playwright Menander. No-one really knows what Terence looked like. The Vatican, and Wikipedia, pretend this is his portrait.

Sadly, when it comes to getting sexual pleasure from sharps, animals, scat and urine, I’m not only out, myself, but I don’t really see how it could be much fun for anyone else. So although those are still human desires, they’re all still foreign to me.

I think that’s a fault, not a virtue, because it’s a failure of imagination and a lack of empathy. But there it is, anyway.

Bellie brought us tea and chocolate biscuits, smirking like the sort of girl who isn’t embarrassed when she’s winning at Monopoly. I suppose she was pleased to see that Raylene was relaxed and happy. At the same time, a sister can also be quite pleased with the knowledge that her younger sister has just had her arse thoroughly smacked.

Bellie said she and Lynette had found moussaka in the freezer, and they’d expect us down for dinner in about half an hour. Then she said Raylene was a bad girl, and I was a bad man, though for different reasons. She waved at us, but perhaps just me, pausing at the door just before she left.

Raylene still sprawled on her back on her pile of pillows, looking like the Venus de Milo, all pampered but without arms. She looked at me. “She’s just jealous.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but I didn’t to discuss Bellie with her sister just then. I said, “Just a second,” and rolled her onto her side. Her hands were still tied, her arse still gloriously, tomato-ey red. I smacked her again so that she made a protesting noise.

Then she decided that she wasn’t allowed to protest, and fell silent. I said, “Good girl,” again, and untied her hands. When she’d righted herself and relaxed against her pillows again I passed a mug of tea.

Raylene grinned, not nicely. “Bellie’s always thought you were hers.”

I frowned. That had to mean that Bellie had talked about our night together, and that Raylene had known things about me when we met in the kitchen. Sisters are competitive. I thought again about that moment she’d come close to me and pulled her jersey up to show me her tattoo. And her creamy body. Then I pushed the thought aside. It had happened, and whatever Raylene’s motivations had been, I was happy with the outcome. And she seemed to be too.

Instead I said, “Is that why you didn’t move, on the stairs. When Bellie and Lynette came home?”

Raylene looked at me as if I’d said something extraordinary. “No. You hadn’t told me to move.”

“Ok. But if you were on the road and a car was coming, you wouldn’t wait for me to tell you to move.”

“Well, I guess not. But that’s different. I don’t want to get run over.”

“But you did want – . Ah. Never mind.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I passed her a chocolate biscuit.

So I’d learned two things. One was why Raylene and I had moved so fast. I hadn’t been as firmly in the driving seat as I’d thought. Raylene had had her own impetus too. The other thing I’d learned –

That isn’t Photoshop, by the way; just an unfeasibly large wooden spoon

I now knew that if I ordered Raylene to go down to the kitchen naked to fetch me a wooden spoon, she’d think that was hot. If I said that while she was down there she’d explain to Lynette, say, that we needed it for me to spank her arse with, then that would be hotter. And if I said she’d have to wait down there till I came down and spanked her in the kitchen,I’d find her there red-faced, but also a hot, wet and needy girl.

I couldn’t actually do it, of course, because it wouldn’t be right to use Bellie and Raylene, without their consent, as props for a sexual adventure between Raylene and me.

But I did know what Raylene’s reaction would be, to exhibiting herself like that. It would be … positive.

And that knowledge gave me some clues about how I was going to deal with her guilt and my disapproval about her time with that gang of boot boy dickheads.

We’d been stuck there four months since the last post in this story, Raylene and I. I lay on my back in Raylene’s bed, with a stack of pillows under my head and shoulders, while was on her knees further down the bed, hands behind her back, her head bobbing industriously. She looked intent, when I glimpsed her face. Serious-minded.

I was happy to be there, being served, my orgasm building but in no hurry. But Raylene’s sister Dorabella (“Bellie”) had promised to make us cups of tea, which would give her and maybe her friend Lynette an excuse to come into the room. Raylene would probably enjoy that, but I wouldn’t.

That set me an orgasm deadline. I should come before the Tea Invasion, if I wanted to come at all. That meant there was no way I’d come in Raylene’s mouth in the time it takes to make a cup of tea, especially now that the deadline was there to distract me.

So I pulled Raylene off by her hair and manhandled her onto her back roughly where I’d been lying, so she could rest her tied hands in the pile of pillows. I slapped her outer thigh to show that I wasn’t really a considerate man, and growled, “Legs up, Raylene. I want your heels pointing at the ceiling.”

Raylene was wriggling to get her tied hands comfortable. She frowned. “Um… You mean … You mean my toes? Sir?”

“No. Heels. Get your legs straight up. You’ll have to stretch a bit. This is what razor strops are for, so I’d suggest you try hard.”

Raylene raised her legs, knees as straight as she could hold them, trying to comply. She lifted her ass a little way above the sheet. I think her heels were higher than her toes. I smiled, unreasonably pleased with her. “Good girl. Now put your feet about a metre apart.”

Raylene said, “I don’t think I can hold this for – ” But I put my hand on her mouth, and my body between her thighs. Her ass dropped back to the bed under my weight, but she kept her legs up. She was breathing hard. I lined my cock against her beautiful slippery cunt, and leaned forward.

I took my hand away, and Raylene said, “onnhh, yeah,” as I filled her. When I was buried in her all the way, she looked up at me, searching for something in my face. Usually I’d smile and say something affectionate at that moment, but this wasn’t going to be that kind of fuck.

I dropped my head, bit her jawline just below her ear, and lost myself in her hair, paying her face no further attention. I put my hands under her to cup her ass – still blazing heat from the razor strop – and hold her tight against me while I fucked her.

She still held her legs up while I claimed her and re-claimed her as hard and roughly as I could, chasing my orgasm down. At some stage I discovered that her bed, which had seemed sturdy, rocked if you were violent enough. The headboard started bashing the wall in a loud and unmistakeable rhythm.

I sped up, and Raylene wailed painfully loud in my ear. I hadn’t expected her to come, but clearly she was seconds away. I couldn’t decipher what she was wailing, except that it included the word “sir”.

So the neighbours weren’t going to learn my name, just a title. Raylene’s sexual screaming set them some puzzles.

A few seconds later I breathed, “yeah.” It was at once encouragement and permission for her to come again, and warning that I was about to do the same. Coming in Raylene was like falling, in slow, sweet comfort in a warm, wet and weightless world.

She brought her legs down, without permission, and rested her feet on my arse, enfolding me. Her face contorted and she moved her head back as far she could. And she screamed, uninhibitedly. “Sir” again. I liked it.

For a time, in the afterwards, we did nothing, had nothing to say. Eventually I kissed her neck and let her take all of my weight while we puffed and panted together. She caressed me with her thighs. Her hands were still tied, but she made no complaint about that. I left it.

It’s time to continue the story of Raylene. Like most stories I try to tell briefly, it’s grown into a saga. I posted the most recent episode back in October 2015.

But the story started with us meeting in Raylene’s kitchen, back in episode 1. That appeared in October 2014. It’s been going a while.

You can read all 66 episodes by checking this category: Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive. Click on that category, which you’ll find high-lighted at the bottom of this post. All the episodes are there, in order. And episode 1 is here.

I recommend reading them if you haven’t. Of course I’m biased, but there’s some hot stuff and some interesting stuff there. But If you’ve already read them and you just want to get on with it, here’s a brief outline of the story so far, to help you pick it up again.

The story so far

The saga’s called “Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive”, which sounds a bit click-bait-y, except that Raylene had spent a year or so with a neo-Nazi gang to punish her mother for getting a new boyfriend. Raylene did come to her senses, but when I met her she was still pretty raw from being an ex-Nazi. That explains one part of the title.

And while she’d been running with the boot boys she’d done some very bad things, that I haven’t told about so far. She felt bad about them, and in a different way so did I. If we were going to have a relationship, at some stage we were going to have to deal with that. She needed reasons to forgive herself.

At the point we’d got to when I broke off to tell other stories, I’d been whipping her ass with my belt on the stairs that led up to her bedroom. The odd thing was that when Bellie, her sister and Lynette, a friend of Bellie’s, turned up unexpectedly during that belting, Raylene hadn’t run for her room to save herself embarrassment.

Instead she stayed in position, naked and spectacularly red-arsed, while I talked to her sister and her sister’s extremely disapproving friend. Raylene only got up when I ordered her to go to her room and wait for me. She’d wanted her sister, and maybe Lynette, to see that she was getting whipped and that she obeyed orders. It was an important statement, that had little to do with me.

So when Raylene had disappeared into her room I talked to Bellie, who’d had a thing with me a couple of years back. She knew I was a pervert though she’d turned down the wondrous possibilities that offered her. I also talked to Lynette, who’d hated me from the second she saw the state of Raylene’s bottom and thighs.

Anyway, the outcome was that they’d go out for a while, then come back and make dinner while we, er, got things out of our systems. When they’d left I’d joined Raylene in her bed. Things that happen between a dom and a woman who likes doms happened between us.

But at a moment when I had my cock in Raylene’s throat, and the need to come in her, Bellie and Lynette returned. Bellie pounded up the stairs, partly out of mischief and (though she didn’t say so) partly to check Raylene was ok. She offered us a cup of tea.

Raylene still had my cock in her mouth, and all my attention. I told Bellie to go away. But Raylene signalled, with her mouth still dutifully, beautifully full, that she would, in fact, quite like a cup of tea. If one was going.

So I ordered tea for two. That’s where the story has got to. Now, or soon, read on.

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